Nobody at school knew I filmed myself.
That was the point. By day I was Wren Lawson—quiet, decent grades, the girl who brought extra pens and sat one row from the back. By night I locked my door, set the phone on the stack of textbooks at the foot of my bed, and did the things I would have died if anyone found.
They found it anyway.
Specifically, he found it.
Kai Mercer slid into the empty seat beside me in lecture like he owned the building. Hockey captain. Filthy mouth. The kind of handsome that made girls stupid. He had never spoken to me except to borrow a charger once last semester.
Today he tipped his phone toward me under the table.
The video on the screen was me.
My bed. My pink toy. My legs spread. My voice on the recording, wrecked and shameless, telling an empty room how
